


We will never be here again

by froekenpest, publius_ham



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Alternate Universe - Ancient Greece, M/M, Slow Burn
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-06-16
Updated: 2017-06-16
Packaged: 2018-11-14 22:01:59
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,394
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11217129
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/froekenpest/pseuds/froekenpest, https://archiveofourown.org/users/publius_ham/pseuds/publius_ham
Summary: Greece in the Age of Heroes. Harry Potter, an awkward young Ambassador's son, has been invited along to the biannual gathering at the Court of Thrace, where, much to his own displeasure, he meets the Trojan Prince: Draco Malfoy.The Prince turns out to be the least of Harry's problems when he suddenly finds himself on a trojan ship, headed straight into enemy territory.





	We will never be here again

**Author's Note:**

> as ancient history aficionados, @sappypotter and myself decided it was time we applied our knowledge (along with large amounts of artistic liberties) to our favourite subjects, Draco and Harry!
> 
> Thank you for your patience, enjoy! <3 
> 
> tags will be updated accordingly.

 

Harry Potter woke up with a jump, suddenly aware only of a dull pain in his left temple and a filthy curse on his tongue. His cursing was immediately followed by a rather passionate smack to his shoulder, and he groaned miserably.

_ Good morning to you, too. _

"Mother!" Harry exclaimed in offence at the additional sting of pain. His head hasn't even quit throbbing yet. The charm to improve his vision must have worn off as he slept, but he was still quite sure he could make out a frown on his mother's face next to him.

"Don't 'mother!' me," Lily was failing at hiding the amusement in her voice, which left Harry feel even more betrayed. "I will not excuse using foul language, not even when Bucky bumps into a pothole and you hit your head. And anyway, we're nearly there, it's time you were awake." 

Harry doubted that Bucephalus ‘Bucky’ the Horse was the sole responsible driving force of their carriage, but he let it slide. He also thought it was funny  _ Lily _ should claim that, as he clearly remembered hearing his mother utter a heartfelt ‘fuck’ when she spilled drink on her dress not three days ago. 

Harry however wasn't ready to receive yet another punch to his person, so he refrained from offering any commentary on that episode whatsoever. Contrary to popular belief, he did not have a death wish.  

The greek convoy was rapidly approaching one of the Thracean capitols, and while Harry really didn't look forward to formal visits of any kind, he was excited to take part in the festivities, and was consistently curious to meet people of far-away nations. The fact that he'd get to sleep in a real bed after spending endless weeks in a tent also helped his enthusiasm considerably. 

Though, as uncomfortable as the journey north was on horse, he would always prefer it to sailing. He didn’t trust ships, and the unsteady ground made him sick more often than not. To Harry’s delight his father let himself be convinced to take Harry and Lily along on the lengthier route that included more diplomatic visits, instead of just having them arrive directly to Thrace by ship. Harry was almost suspicious of his parents’ intents, as the whole procedure of persuading them of taking the scenic detour went only too smoothly. James would rarely have family accompany him for  ‘tedious business’ and it wasn’t secret he liked to keep his entourage in limited numbers. 

Harry thought it was rather the fact that James sometimes coincidentally attended ‘tedious business’ visits together with both King Lyall’s son and his protégé, familiarly known as uncles Sirius and Remus, and didn’t want his wife hawking over their pranks on the rare occasion. By extension, Harry would usually stay home with Lily, but he did not really mind. 

It was the second time that Harry was invited along for the biennial peace banquet between the mediterranean kingdoms of Macedon, Argos, Thrace, Troy and Cyprus. Rumour had it that even the allied centaurs of Crete would finally show up, the possibility of which was a source of indescribable fascination for Harry. Ever since he was little, he was mesmerized by unusual beings and creatures, and he had always wished to meet as many as possible in person. 

However, seen as the centaurs were famed for being wary of sea-travel (to put it mildly), Harry had to admit he was more likely to play fetch with Cerberus than meet an actual centaurian envoy. Consequently , that meant he would not be able to settle an old argument between himself and Ron about centaurian fashion either. Harry would lie if he claimed to remember the origin of the curious dispute; the only thing for sure was that  Harry believed the centaurs wore their clothing only on the human body, while Ron insisted it would have to extend to the horse body as well, as he so subtly put it, ‘to cover their junk.’

Despite all evidence, though, they both disagreed with Hermione, who pointed out centaurs didn't believe in any other clothing than battle armor; and thus went about mostly naked. Surely, that couldn’t be true even with taking centaurian eccentricites into consideration.  

This year, the banquet was hosted by the Thracean King. 

Harry's father, the governor of Athens, was also the Ambassador of King Albus Dumbledore, First of His Name, King of Argos and Mycenae. James Potter and his family were cordially invited to engage in diplomatic representation at the formal symposium. The banquet was to be held after the traditional festive games, but Harry had no illusions as to how far that invitation was extended. Even though he was of age by all rights, his lack of experience in politics and warfare didn't put him in a position where his voice would be of much weight in the upcoming debates. To his mother's dismay, he didn't much care. 

In fact, he  _ welcomed _ the prospect of excusing himself to enjoy thracean hospitality.

King Cornelius Fudge was perhaps not the most popular among the  royalty participating on the peace assembly, but Harry was pretty sure that in an attempt to suck up to Dumbledore the King and the royal court would accommodate any of the greek envoys' needs and wishes. Harry wasn't one to exploit such an opportunity, (of course not, don’t be daft) but he disliked Fudge ever since he met him on a visit to Argos, and would definitely feel less guilty for engaging in the games and the celebration only, away from any official business and snobbish company. After all, Ron and Hermione could not come along with him here, he’d have to entertain himself _somehow_. 

That was if he could escape Lily Potter's field of vision before she could drag him into socializing with in her opinion eligible brides for Harry, which would doubtless result in a spectacular debacle, as usual. Harry had no idea why Lily still insisted on trying. With a cringe he thought of the unfortunate events of a past visit, when he accidentally stepped on  Lady Parvati’s gown and tripped her right into a fountain. He was lucky her chaperones didn’t drown him in said fountain right there. Just the memory was enough to make Harry want to set himself on fire.   

 

Harry gave the bump on his head one last dissatisfied rub, and quickly performed a  _ visure _ charm on his eyes. He sighed in relief as his vision cleared. He could now see his mother was right - their company was already within sights of the tall wall surrounding the city of Ainos. 

The city lay on a ridge of rocks and while it was smaller than Athens, it sure did compensate in grandeur. Surrounding the rocks was fertile marshland richly covered in greenery, which spread far and wide until it finally gave way to beautiful forests. The city extended over the rocks in white cascades, and the vast, famous harbour could be seen from afar. Trade was Ainos’ main source of income, and it showed: the opulent decoration of buildings and merchant shops of various origin all screamed wealth. If Harry listened closely, he could hear the distant sound of street vendors and the buzz of multicultural markets. Much of the city’s population was of diverse heritage, but the cultures seemingly coexisted in a flow, and mixed with an astonishing ease. 

This, Harry thought amusedly, might turn out to be a very fun trip after all.

Once past the main gates, Harry could not take his eyes off the blindingly white buildings with intricate foreign ornaments, disrupted only by the contrastingly colourful clothing of the city’s inhabitants. The scent of spices permeated the air, and soon enough curious onlookers started appearing from windows, doorways, and surrounding streets; everyone wanted to get a good look at the strange entourage entering their city.  

Harry fought the urge to smile and wave. If not immediate death, his mother would surely find another way to make sure he didn’t do that again. Perhaps cut off his arm at the elbow. Peel off the skin off his hands. Make him help the servants with  _ chores _ . The possibilities were endless, and he wasn’t going to risk it. Once he accidentally insulted a Persian Ambassador because he was unfamiliar with eastern customs. Lily almost really did skin her son that time.

It wouldn’t be long until they reached the marble palace that towered over Ainos. It was larger than the estate Harry’s parents owned in Athens, and it was even comparable  to Dumbledore’s athenian residence the king used during visits. To Harry’s disappointment, there wouldn’t be much time for him to explore the town, nor would Lily allow it without the presence of obnoxious guards, but the sight of the palace already alive with numerous foreign guests was comforting. Even if their stay wouldn’t be long, Harry was sure there would be plenty of activities he could partake in. 

That is, if he survived the official part without boring himself to a dishonourable death, and could escape his mother’s discreetly disapproving glares. 

“Don’t forget, we’re here on official business,” as if on cue, Lily reminded Harry yet again. “I expect you’ll take part in the festivities and whole of the banquet without sneaking off to Hades knows where, is that clear?” Lily’s tone wasn’t confrontational, but Harry knew the order was serious, and that there was an underlying promise of getting in proper trouble should he disobey. 

Harry was still facing out the window, so Lily couldn’t see how hard he was rolling his eyes. 

“Harry-”

“Yes mom, it’s clear. No shenanigans, I promise.” Harry tried not to sound as exasperated as he felt. He knew Lily wasn’t entirely convinced, but it wasn’t like he could blame her. He was his father’s son, after all.

“I mean it, honey.” There was something in her voice that made Harry turn around and look at her, and her face was more serious than he had ever seen it. “I have a bad feeling about this. Just make sure that whatever is going to happen… it won’t involve you.”

“Alright, mom.” He tried to smile. “I promise, really.” 

She grabbed his hand and squeezed it tightly, an impossible look in her eyes - desperate to believe him while  _ knowing _ that things like this were far beyond Harry’s control. 

However much Harry promised to be good, to not attract trouble (for once), he knew not to hope for the impossible. 

 

The greek entourage was shortly welcomed by the palace staff, who took care of the  horses and luggage. Meanwhile, the Potters and a few of their servants bearing gifts were escorted to be received by the Thracean King. Harry had a childish need to bemoan his impending fate and commence being bored immediately upon passing the grand palace doors. 

It wasn’t really that the  process was much demanding of him, but Harry still felt that in the time they exchanged basic pleasantries, he could have had travelled all the way to Carthago and back. By foot. Or crawling on his knees, backwards, while trying to play the lyre. 

Smiling and nodding was the most of what was expected where his presence was involved; though the Ambassador’s son, he was still too low of standing to actually engage in conversation with the King, more than just laughing at whatever anecdotes Fudge brought up this time around. Fudge always liked to highlight his good relationship with Dumbledore, bragging about their ‘special bond’ to the entirety of Greece in vivid detail (aside from Sparta - nobody really liked Spartans.) There was never a better friendship between nations than between Greeks and Thraceans, nay. 

Whilst listening to Fudge and his court drone on, Harry himself standing in the background with the rest of the Potter’s entourage, he came up with at least thirteen ways of depriving himself of life using just a slipper and a piece of string. Despite having slept in the carriage only an hour ago, he felt ready to lie down on the marble floor, close his eyes and pray for the whole reception to end as soon as possible. Harry was convinced Fudge must have been at least half-Dementor in heritage. The thought of said creature, only lime-green like Fudge’s garb and with the King’s face of course made him want to giggle like a little child. He somewhat attempted to control himself in the serious atmosphere. Admittedly, he was struggling at best. 

Lily glared in his direction with a fierceness that could make Dionysus sober, and Harry nearly choked, able to at the last minute cover it up with a creative cough. 

After what had felt like eons of endless (and in Harry’s opinion, pointless) small talk, first with the king and then the courtiers, the Potters were at last admitted to their designated guest quarters. At this point, Harry was ready to fall face first into his bed again, cushioned by the countless feather pillows covering it like a fluffy, colorful cloud. The games and the banquet would officially begin the next day, so he still had the evening for himself to do as he liked. He considered sneaking off with James’ invisibility cloak and visit his old friend Seamus - one of the servants at the palace kitchens - or explore the grounds and see who had already arrived. He briefly wondered where the centaurian envoy would be accommodated should he arrive - surely not the stables? Would he get some special sort of hay, though? Vine-leaves for food perhaps? Harry stopped the train of thought before he could accuse himself of unintentional prejudices. He could still ask Seamus, he would probably have heard something.  

Or, Harry mused while fighting off a yawn, he could just go straight to sleep. Travelling always did tend to make him tired beyond belief, after all, and he wasn’t even sure where the servants’ quarters were in the palace just yet. The thought of accidentally getting lost in a foreign palace on the first night ( likely get hit by an  _ incarcerous _ , and get seized by the guards like a common amateur thief too) wasn’t especially appealing to Harry right now. He didn’t even bother putting away his clothes properly, not that he ever did really,  and just kicked off his sandals and chucked his wand somewhere in the proximity of his nightstand. Clumsily he crawled under the thin, but silk-embroidered sheets, and let Hypnos lull him to sleep.

 

### *** 

Harry had only been in the Thracean capital for one day and a night, and he was already injured. 

He stumbled through his chamber, his hand clutched tight against his chest while the other was gesturing wildly through the air. 

_ Of course _ he’d lose his wand right when he needed it most - right before his eye-sight spell, right before he accidentally cut himself on the bowl he was trying to fix. A bowl that  _ coincidentally _ shattered when he stumbled over a treacherous step. A bowl that looked like a very old, disused, now mostly decorative pensieve, probably worth more than he could imagine. (A pensieve, he was sure, that was never going to be good enough to be shown in public, let alone be given back to the Thracians after he broke it in pieces and disrupted its dormant magic.) Harry had only wanted to wash his face after waking up from a quick nap after the games, and there his unlucky nature reared his ugly head again. He shouldn’t be surprised, and yet every time it was as stupid as it was inconvenient. What kind of an idiotically, outrageously optimistic fool would place a decorative pensieve in such a place, anyway? In the corner? By a step? 

“Zeus’ balls,” Harry muttered under his breath, feeling as though the gods themselves had purposefully hid his wand to watch him flounder around like a madman - one of their unknowing ways of playing with the mortals. “ _ Kunops _ \- oh!” he jumped triumphantly, grinning from ear to ear (and immensely happy no one could hear him yell.) “Here you are.”

His wand felt safe in his hand, and slightly warm - as if it was just as happy to be reunited with him as he was - and he couldn’t help but smile when he said, “ _episkey_ ,” his smile not wavering even when a short pange of pain shot through his hand, as the shallow cut sealed itself instantly. He quickly aimed at his eyes, muttered, “ _visure_ ,” and was very happy to note that the room around him seemed to clear up, changing from weird distorted lumps and shades to the small, but comfortable chamber he had been lodging in.

He was, however,  _ not _ very happy to see his mother staring at him from the doorway, her lips pursed and arms crossed.

“Eh,” Harry commented intelligently, lowering his wand. He silently prayed she hadn’t witnessed him breaking the damned bowl or fumbling around like a blind lunatic. How very unfitting of the Ambassador’s son. 

“Good morning, mother -”

Lily huffed. “You’re hurt.”

“Not anymore.” He waved around his left hand, grinning. “I’m quite good with healing spells, you know.”

“Necessity will do that.” She stared at him sternly for a little while, before relaxing slightly. “I hope you’re almost ready for tonight, love, you can’t be late again  -”

Harry tried his best not to snort. It wasn’t that he tried to be late on purpose - oh,  _ no _ , imagine the  _ horror _ of missing the pleasantries of a banquet - but his mother seemed to be convinced he was getting lost in foreign places on purpose. “I won’t be late, mom.” Lily looked like she was three seconds from giving up.

She contemplated the mess that was the broken pensieve, currently occupying both the small table under the window and the floor next to it. She also made a futile attempt at not smiling. “Hide that, before there’s questions,” she suggested mischievously, gesturing to the useless shards that sat on the wooden table. Harry did love his mother very much sometimes. “And do something about that hair!” she added before turning away, acting as if she didn’t see Harry sticking out his tongue at her when she closed the door shut behind her.

As soon as his mother was gone, Harry sighed in relief and decided the bowl would be safe underneath the bed for a while. He’d think of a more creative solution after the banquet, he was sure. 

 

Three hours  and a few aromatic baths later, and Harry sincerely regretted tagging along to Ainos entirely. He wished someone had warned him, or even found out about the shattered pensieve. At least he suspected that being punished would perhaps save him from having his skin scrubbed red and raw by way too enthusiastic servants in the bath house for hours on end. Athenian bath houses were impressive by all standards, but Harry couldn’t even begin to imagine what an ordeal bathing could be in Macedon. Scented baths and oils of every possible kind were meticulously rubbed into his hide until he felt like a suckling pig ready for roasting, the only thing missing was a sweet red apple jammed inside his mouth.

On the bright side, he couldn’t claim he wasn’t distracted from the upcoming festive part of the peace banquet.

He had been bathed more than thoroughly - even that little spot on his back that he could never quite reach had been cleansed - drenched in strange, spicy perfume, and then clothed in his best clothes and shoes; the expensive pair he always ruined, because as pretty as the ornamented sandals were, they weren’t sturdy enough to survive Harry’s ungraceful shuffling around. It wasn’t that he was clumsy on purpose, the ground just seemed to have a stronger pull on him than anyone else around him.

The fact that he was so clean that he was practically glowing wasn’t even what brought him into such a bad mood -  _ no _ , he had to have been seated near the envoys of Macedon, forced to listen to Karkaroff’s endless whining all night without being able to tell him to  _ shut up  _ as well. (At least, Harry doubted the Ambassador of Macedon would appreciate a commoner mouthing back at him. That’s at least what his mother had _ tried _ to get him to understand.)

The feast was held outside in the palace gardens, on a vast terrace of blindingly white marble among rows and rows of tall pillars surrounding it. Enchanted floating candles illuminated the space, dominated chiefly by a large table currently occupied with golden plates full of exquisite food. Servants and entertainers of all kind drifted around the feast, readily tending to the guests’ every wish and whim. The entire terrace was aloud with chatter and cheerful music provided for by a live orchestra, accompanying a group of enchantingly beautiful dancers. Both women and men in colourful, but decidedly scant clothing were dancing in an elevated part of the room, and would mingle with the guests as the evening progressed, as was customary at feasts of this caliber.

Harry looked through the crowd of strangers trying to find a friendly face, but to no avail. On the heavily cushioned banks next to the Macedonians sat the envoys of Cyprus .  Admittedly, Harry would have disliked being seated next to them even more, he had always resented King Scrimgeour, the only other king in attendance aside from Fudge. Scrimgeour was a quiet, stoic man with a very serious face who made every conversation feel like and interrogation at best. However, especially at larger celebrations he often had a tendency sooner or later to latch onto any unattended victim nearby like a leech, and blatantly refuse to shut up about his ongoing religious passion for the flute. This would, in the worst case scenario,  lead to him showcasing the instrument in question, even  _ playing _ the damned thing, if one could consider the frantic cacophony  to be called music. Scrimgeour was clearly confident in his talent. Everybody else usually ran before voicing their opinion, until the entire company had hastily retired to bed. Harry wasn’t particularly fond of the thought of having his ears talked (or worse, played) off this evening. 

Or ever, for that matter.

Opposite of Harry was the empty space prepared to accommodate the Trojans. 

Harry’s heart sank at the realisation. In Harry’s opinion, Trojans were worse than a room full of Scrimgeours - worse, even, than being forced to do a duet with the mad flutist. They were the human embodiment of snakes (no wonder it was the symbol of their Royal Family) and Harry had always abhorred snakes, proverbial and literal, with every fibre of his being. They were sly, cunning, all smiles and perfect courtesy while plotting your demise behind your back. 

That, and they absolutely hated his greek guts. 

It was no secret that the Greeks and Trojans didn’t exactly get along, after all.

It was as if the king of Thrace had purposefully tried to get Harry’s night to be as miserable as possible with this seating, even though Harry knew it was possibly just an unlucky coincidence. 

He couldn’t help but wish he was far, far away from here, praying to the gods that someone would save him from this impossibly long night ahead of him.

“Everything alright?” came suddenly from his left, and he jumped up, almost knocking over Karkaroff’s goblet of wine. He nodded apologetically to the Ambassador - who just turned to glare at him - and then he turned to face the servant who had nearly cost him his head.

“Seamus,” Harry groaned, resisting the urge to smack his friend over the head with a spoon. Or a plate.  “Couldn’t you have given me at least a  _ little _ warning?”

“Sorry,” Seamus said, not sounding very sorry at all.  He quickly poured some water into Harry’s cup despite it already containing another beverage, and he leaned forward. “Have you seen the Trojans yet?” Seamus whispered. It was obvious he was trying very hard not to roll his eyes.  

“No,” Harry whispered back, his voice equally soft. Self-important envoys always felt the need to come just a little later than the others, and the Trojans were no different: they especially enjoyed a magnificent and memorable entrance. The fact that they were too late didn’t surprise Harry in the slightest - the fact that his friend felt the need to mention it, however, did. 

“Why?”

“Well, word is that this year, their Prince is coming,” he went on with a secretive little smile, “and he’s quite -”

Before Seamus could finish his sentence, however, the loud booming voice of the herald interrupted everyone’s idle chats.

“All welcome the Trojan envoy -”

“Speak of the devil,” Seamus muttered before quickly excusing himself. Harry wished he could’ve joined him in his shameless gallop.

“- His grace Prince Draco of Troy!”

 

The Trojans were generally considered to be rather demanding and pompous in their demeanor, and their king was no exception from what Harry knew. The second he laid eyes on the Prince however, he  _ knew _ he was by far the worst of them all, surpassing even King Lucius II, Buffoon Extraordinaire.  

The Prince’s hair seemed even whiter than his father’s, and his skin was astonishingly pale, almost shining in the candlelight, and his face was a mask of stone. His eyes were cold enough it gave Harry unpleasant goosebumps even by looking at him. 

Yes, Harry could admit that Malfoy wasn’t the ugliest boy he’s ever seen - quite the opposite, in fact. The Prince was undeniably handsome , but he seemed to embody everything that Harry abhorred: smugness, a  _ ‘better-than-thou’ _ glare and the disdainful attitude towards everything and everyone that wasn’t Trojan. 

No, rephrase that - everyone who wasn’t a _ royal _ Trojan.

The Prince’s look as he glanced briefly at the company sitting around him couldn’t exactly be called  _ impressed,  _ after all. In fact, before Malfoy’s face turned into a stoic mask again, Harry could have sworn he looked like he accidentally entered a pig sty, smell included. 

“Malfoy,” Karkaroff said suddenly, murmuring to his neighbour but loud enough for Harry to be able to eavesdrop, “The son is even worse than the father,  they say.”

And Harry, staring down at the boy making his way through the crowd, holding his head high as if  _ he _ were the hosting king rather than an envoy, made him want to agree with Karkaroff - something which had never happened before, and was likely never to happen again. 

“According to Dumbledore,” he went on, “the Malfoy family  _ first  _ commenced what soon became a slave society in Troy several generations back. No wonder the Trojans are so inhumane - with all their anti-muggle laws and squib slaves - there are even whispers going around about them experimenting on muggles with  _ dark _ magic.”

His neighbour drank a big gulp of wine as an answer, obviously too uncomfortable to join in. Karkaroff, however, didn’t seem to mind, and went even further; “They also say the Queen’s sister,” he said, his voice dripping with venom, “is especially fond of torturing muggles, even _half-bloods_ seem to be in danger, which is quite frankly an abomination. You know the kind of rumours that surround _her_ -”

His partner grunted, and Harry fought the urge to do the same. 

Everyone knew the rumours flying around about her, about _Bellatrix -_ which, consequently, brought down the prestige of the Malfoy family down from bad to worse. Her entire being was fishy and dangerous, but the Malfoys were almost no different. They had a history of prejudices against anything and anyone that wasn’t one of their own, and there were even hushed-up incidents involving black magic that led back to their family. The fact that even the envoy of _Macedon_ of all people thought them to be bad was compelling enough to believe all the rumours, it was almost a shame Macedonians were not exactly famous for their virtue. However, despite disliking Karkaroff, Harry was still inclined to believe there was at least some truth to his words.  

“And I still can’t believe Snape got away with turning tunics,” Karkaroff continued, lowering his voice now that the Prince of Troy was coming closer, “allegedly he spilled some major dirt on the Malfoys to Dumbledore, but the Greek won’t say a thing -”

His partner, in whom Harry at last recognised the star of olympic games Viktor Krum took one last gulp of his goblet, as if to drown the rumours away. “Don’t be preposterous, your Excellency...” 

Karkaroff laughed, a loud, belly-laugh that shook through his frame. “You are lucky you have been our winner for the games twice in a row, my dear boy, for your insolence… ”

“Your Excellency!” his partner quickly interrupted him, maintaining a playful manner but nodding to Harry, who quickly turned away and acted as if he hadn’t been listening in. “This is really not the right place to discuss this.” Krum gave the Ambassador a meaningful look and a slight nod in the direction of Harry, who quickly took a big sip from his goblet - forgetting for a second that the wine and water combination (thank you, Seamus) was quite appalling. He swallowed with a grimace.

Karkaroff clearly intended to retort with yet another ‘clever’ comeback, but he was ultimately shut up by the Trojan envoy who finally sat down right across their party. 

At last Harry got a closer look at the foreign Prince. 

The mere size of the table laden by a generous, traditionally thracean feast created enough distance between his family and Malfoy, but it may as well have been a bottomless chasm for all the desire of conversation exhibited by both sides. Prince Malfoy indifferently observed the food, as if he was used to eating salted swordfish and mussels with herbs for breakfast, lunch and dinner. He beckoned a servant to pour him wine and continued to detachedly watch the live music accompanying their symposium.

Up close, the Prince looked even more of the untouchable royalty as he had looked from afar.

His skin was a milky white rather than the marble Harry thought it’d been, the kind of colour people used to describe the skin of the gods. His eyelashes looked as if they reflected the light of the candles all around them, and Harry wondered for a moment if they had been painted - no human eyelashes should be that light naturally. Draco Malfoy was _pretty_ rather than _handsome_ , despite his angular features, with calculated and thought-through gestures as if he controlled everything around him. 

Incredibly, for a fleeting instant Harry realized that if he hadn’t been a Malfoy, Harry might have tried to woo him.

He quickly shook his head. That was ludicrous. 

Even  _ if _ he wasn’t the snake who basically embodied everything Harry and his family hated, their difference in ranks among society would make even talking to Prince Draco without being addressed first quite unheard of, let alone courting him. 

Harry shuddered, quickly turning around so he wouldn’t be tempted to look at the Prince anymore. 

Gods, no. 

Even remotely entertaining the idea about making advances made Harry borderline nauseous - the Prince made him borderline nauseous. The second he would seriously consider involving himself with a Malfoy was the second he was being possessed by the Three Furies, and he would much rather like someone to put him out of that misery and drown him in the Styx than to actually date the sly serpent, thank you very much. Just the fact that fine, yes, the princeling was coincidentally exactly his type wouldn’t make any difference, he was still Trojan. What’s worse, he was a Malfoy, too.

He could practically hear Hermione’s speech about “inappropriate urges” that she always gave him whenever she walked in on him in an awkward position with someone - often in the stables, sometimes in the vineyard - and he could only imagine how much worse it’d be if she thought it concerned the Trojan Prince. 

It would be better if Harry just sat there quietly, ignoring the obnoxious Prince with all his might. It would all be okay. He could zone out the Prince’s incessant complaints about the food and the drinks, he could pretend not to notice whenever the servants purposefully walked around the Prince’s spot with a wide berth to avoid a verbal knock-out.

Nothing was going to go wrong, he was sure of it.

However wrong he was.


End file.
